There was nothing for him to grab hold of and it happened so fast, the briefcase knocking his feet right out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor, the back of his head connecting with the edge of the fireplace hearth on his way down—making a fatal-sounding thud of flesh against stone.

My mother moved forward to help him, but I stood fixed to the spot, watching the strange spasms that coursed through his body for a brief few seconds before he went still. A small pool of blood spread out around his head, and his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling above him.

My mother said nothing as she searched for a pulse, listened for breathing, put a hand over his heart. Only when she found no sign of life did she turn to me. “You killed him,” she said, in an eerily calm whisper.

I sank down to the floor, my body shaking, my teeth chattering so hard I was sure they would break apart in my mouth. My mother lifted me up and guided me to the couch, wrapped a blanket around me, brought me a tumbler of my father’s Scotch, and instructed me to drink it.

She covered my father’s body with one of the scratchy wool blankets from the blanket box and then went into the kitchen. I heard the sound of the phone receiver being lifted from its cradle, the hum of the rotating dial, and then her hushed voice. I assumed she was calling the police or an ambulance, but it was West who arrived that night, not emergency services.

The Scotch worked quickly to stop the chattering of my teeth and slow the shaking of my body until it was only a slight tremor. When my mother returned to the room, I was coherent enough to focus on her words.

She knelt down in front of me and took my hands in hers, grasping them too tightly for it to feel like affection. “You need to listen to me closely, May Bennett,” she said, sounding firm but not angry. “What happened here tonight must stay a secret. If we tell the police, they will put you away for a very long time. Do you understand?” I nodded. “You will have to stay in a horrible place without me or June. You don’t want that, do you?”

My mother’s stern face blurred behind the tears that filled my eyes and spilled quietly down my cheeks. “No,” I whimpered in response.

She freed one of her hands to wipe away the tears, one of the most affectionate things she’d ever done. “Of course you don’t, and I’m not going to let anyone take you away.” Her conviction was comforting. “You are my daughter and you belong with me. Always.”